


Timing it Right

by DragonBandit



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Pern Fusion, Characters are 16 at start, Consent Issues, M/M, Mating Flight (Dragonriders of Pern), No need to have read Pern, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The cliche of a man impressing a gold dragon, Time Travel, YMMV for underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: The dragon chooses, Mark knows that as well as any boy born in a weyr. He'd never considered what that would mean if the dragon picked someone you hated. He's starting to think that was a mistake.Damien's gold rises at Whitney. Mark tries to make things right.





	Timing it Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughablyunimportant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/gifts).



> I was very, very enabled. You're welcome. Send thanks to LaughablyUnimportant for making this happen. 
> 
> Due to time travel shenanigans shit gets weird about age differences. Everyone is legally consenting, and no adults are involved with minors.

The entirety of the weyr is in an uproar. To be more accurate, Mark amends once he’s far, far away from the man, Weyrleader Allem of Atkins is in an uproar. Why, Mark doesn’t know. Other than that it has something to do with one of the riders that had made up the entourage of bronze and brown dragons that the Weyrleader had brought with him.

Mark, a lowly weyr-born, not even bonded to a dragon, had not been privy to more details other than to find “the Gorham boy” from wherever it was he was hiding. Mark was one of several unimportant members of the weyr who had been dispatched to find him. “Before it was too late.” Too late for what, had been another question that Mark had not received any answers for. He’d gone, of course. Finding the Gorham boy (his name was apparently Damien according to one of the fosterlings who had lived at Atkins weyr before moving to Whitney) seemed like the fastest way to get answers as to why it was so important he be found in the first place.

Whitney Weyr is a mess of caves dotting what had once been an active volcano. The most well-travelled are the smooth man-made tunnels formed from the ancient machines that the settlers had brought with them when Pern was colonised. Mark ducks through a shadowed door, picking up a glow-worm lantern to light his way down the lesser used passages. These had been formed by the volcano itself, the walls rougher, not as geometrically perfect as the others.

As a kid Mark had spent many hours running through the caves finding where the best places to avoid chores had been. If Mark’s being honest with himself, he still does that.

Glow-worm light throws pale green on the stone, occasionally interspersed by rare patches where the sunlight can make it through the rock.

“Damien?” Mark calls, not expecting anything. “Damien, are you anywhere near here?”

Mark goes down a set of natural stairs, and through a set of twisting corridors that go around and back on themselves. Experience tells him that he’s near the bowl of the weyr, where the dragons gather to feed and sun themselves in the natural heat of the volcano. There’s a little outcropping that looks over it, if Mark’s remembered this correctly. Exactly the sort of place where someone would go if they didn’t want to be disturbed but didn’t want to be bored out of their mind while they were hiding. Mark angles himself to head over there, instead of to the outskirts of the weyr.

He’s not expecting to hear the soft sound of someone trying to hide sobs when he gets to the little alcove.

“Damien?” Mark says again. He peers into the darkness, the light highlighting a slim figure with long hair that curls over their shoulders, and flying leathers over a sturdy tunic with long sleeves. Mark reaches out. The boy flinches away from him. Mark drops his hand, swallowing. “Weyr-leader’s looking for you,” He says.

“Let him look,” Damien snarls. He hunches further into himself, buried in the corner against the rough stone. A hand drags roughly at the tear tracks staining his cheeks.

Mark sits on the edge of the cave, legs swinging out into thin air, next to him. “What’s wrong?”

A snort, “You’re weyr-born aren’t you?”

“That’s right. You can tell?” He turns towards Damien, leaning out slightly into the open air.

Damien doesn’t answer the question. “Then I don’t need to explain what’s happening.”

Mark looks down past his feet, into the bowl of the weyr. There are more bronzes around than normal in the feeding grounds. From where Mark’s sitting he can easily count ten, maybe twenty of them. Not to mention the browns and blues on the edges. Then there’s the tension in the air. The feeling of a thunderstorm about to arrive.

Mark’s lived in a weyr all his life. He knows what this is.

“Dragon’s about to rise.” He supplies.

Damien laughs bitterly, “Mine.”

“Yours?”

“I don’t look the part?”

“Hey, I only just met you. I didn’t know you had a dragon at all, let alone one about to rise. How big a green is she that you’ve gotten most of the bronze dragons interested in her too?”

“She’s not green.”

Mark snorts, “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that you impressed gold.” Only girls impress gold. Damien looks like he’s only as old as Mark is too. He needs a few more turns on him before Joan will even think of letting him on the sands of the hatching ground.

Damien smiles, teeth bared. It’s not a happy smile.

Mark swallows. He’s suddenly painfully aware that Damien doesn’t sound like he’s lying. Even if it _is_ completely unbelievable. “Oh. Then—shouldn’t you be down there? Blooding her kill or whatever? Making sure she doesn’t eat?”

“I don’t need to be near her to do that.”

Another look down at the valley below. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but Mark is sure that he can see a flurry of human figures amongst the hulking shapes of the dragons, all of them converging on something in the center that’s just out of sight behind the huge wing of a bronze dragon.

He turns back to study Damien’s hateful grin. There’s another realization hidden there.

“You’re not though. You’re letting her eat what she wants before she rises.”

The smile grows wider.

“Damien!” He leans back, horrified, “Why? You know that’s bad for her! Everyone knows a dragon can’t eat before they rise! It’s bad for the clutch. They blood the kill. That’s it. _Especially_ when it’s the queen!”

“Exactly.” Damien says, vicious, “She won’t clutch as many as she’s meant to, maybe she won’t clutch at all and they’ll finally give up on me!”

“You don’t mean that,” Mark says, but he knows as soon as he says it that he’s wrong. The same way that he knows that Damien’s impressed gold, even though they both know it should be impossible. “Who are you?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Damien laughs. It echoes around the tiny cave, an unhappy awful noise that makes Mark’s heart hurt. “They don’t talk about the disgrace of Atkins Weyr? The boy from Gorham hold that stole a queen dragon egg and impressed it before someone could take it away from him?”

“You stole a queen egg.” He can’t believe this.

“I took it right out of the sand, and took my belt-knife to it when it didn’t hatch. It was the biggest egg in the clutch, and I knew it was mine as soon as I saw it and I was right.”

“You stole a queen egg?” Mark repeats, voice going loud and high, “How are you not dead?”

Damien just laughs, and laughs. Long and hard, head tilting back as fresh tears run down his cheeks. Mark watches him, wary. Waiting for the fit to end. Eventually Damien goes silent, but he doesn’t offer any explanation, or for that matter anything else.

Eventually Mark turns back to the bowl of the weyr. The bronze that was previously in the way has moved, leaving a clear line of sight between the alcove and the smallest gold dragon that Mark has ever seen. She’s still big, easily bigger than the brown and blue dragons around her, but unlike most gold dragons who are a good head and a half taller than even the bronze dragons, Damien’s gold is so close in size to them that Mark can’t tell a difference. Around her is a clump of dragon riders, keeping a careful distance from her claws, tail and snapping teeth.

She’s biting into a felled wherry, blood and guts and viscera shining in the noon sun. Mark turns his head away. “You should get down there.” He says.

Damien snorts, “Why? So I can be taken by whichever lucky bronze rider catches my Falrith at the end of the flight? No thank you.”

“You can’t hide up here the whole time.”

“Yes. I can.”

“Everyone’s looking for you,” Mark insists again. “I should be telling your weyrleader that I’ve found you so you can deal with your dragon like a proper gold rider! First egg, Damien, why did you steal a gold egg of all things if you couldn’t handle mating flights?”

Damien erupts, snarling into the sky, “ _She wasn’t supposed to be gold!_ The egg wasn’t gold! It wasn’t set aside for the girls to swarm around! It was on the edges of the sands, barely in the warmth of the weyr! _She was supposed to be **bronze**!_”

In the bowl of the weyr Damien’s gold—Falrith, that’s what Damien called her—lifts her head up and shrieks with him. She’s so close to rising. Her gold hide shines with the promise, another few minutes and she’ll be leading a chase through the skies above the weyr. The air around the weyr feels like lightning thanks to her desire. It coils in Mark’s stomach, a hot lead ball that sinks lower every time Mark breathes in more of that charged air.

He swallows, “Damien, I’m serious. You need to get down there right now.”

“Or what?” Damien challenges.

Mark doesn’t know. He’s studied weyr history with his sister practically every day of his life and he’s never heard of a case where the gold rider didn’t take the bronze rider to bed during the flight. There’s always been the assumption though, that it would go badly for everyone.

“You’ll want to be down there when she gets caught.”

“No. I won’t.” Damien says, a conviction that runs so deep into Mark’s bones he feels like Damien’s words have turned into a field of thread and flayed his skin open.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this,” Mark fills in.

Damien’s lips twist into a smirk.

“How old are you?” Mark wonders. Most people stand on the sands to impress when they’re seventeen and older, though some weyrs are making noises about the next pass of the red star—only another 5 turns before the first threadfall begins—to start putting candidates on at younger ages. Though as far as Mark knew Atkins weyr was not one of them.

Damien doesn’t look that much older than Mark, and he’s only fifteen, not big enough to even think about standing at a hatching, though he’s sure that he will once he’s big enough and there’s a clutch to stand for. How old was Damien when he impressed that he’s already gone through a rising already?

Damien answers the unspoken question, “I was thirteen.”

Once again, Mark gapes at him in shock. He starts to ask what cold day in _between_ it was that someone thought that was a good idea, then remembers that Damien apparently stole his egg. He has a feeling that the answer to that question starts and ends with “I did.”

“First egg, Damien,” Mark says. He starts to say something else, but then Damien’s mouth opens in a gasp and there’s a deafening cry from the bowl: a queen dragon issuing her challenge to the males around her. Ready or not, Damien’s Falrith is rising. There’s no way to stop it; the only thing they can do now is watch and wait.

The air is thick with the psychic lust of the Queen, echoed by the bronzes around her. It paints the back of Mark’s throat, until all he can feel and taste is the promise of sex.

He swallows around it. “Damien, we need to get you out of here. Down there.” He reaches out, tentatively putting a hand on Damien’s shoulder.

“No.” Damien growls. He pushes Mark’s hand away. His eyes are wide, whites a sharp contrast to the black of his pupil swallowing up the iris as Damien stares skywards. In the air above the weyr, Falrith climbs, higher and higher, pursued by two flights worth of bronzes, browns, and the few blues stupid enough to think they have a chance.

“Damien.” Mark tries again, this time tugging on Damien’s arm. “You need to get down. You need to be around the bronzes.”

“I’m not some kind of prize!” In the air Falrith echoes Damien’s desperate cry. “I’m not letting them touch me! I’m staying here, and if you make me go, I’ll throw myself off the edge of the cliff and fly without dragons’ wings to catch me!”

“You’re hysterical,” Mark urges, “It’s the rising, please, you have to—”

“No!”

Damien stands, stumbling towards the edge. Mark yelps, grabbing him before he can make good on his threat. “Okay,” he says, “Okay, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll stay here. You don’t need to threaten me!”

Damien stills. When Mark tugs him back to the safety of the shadowed alcove, he goes willingly. The two of them settle close to each other, Mark’s arm wrapped around Damien’s waist, two fingers looped around his belt. Mark’s too afraid that Damien will try and bolt up again. Everyone knows that gold riders barely have an awareness of themselves during a mating flight, let alone know where they are. That’s why bronze riders gather ‘round them, to keep them from getting hurt. At least, that’s what Mark was always told they were doing.

Damien makes a small noise, and buries his head in Mark’s shoulder. He’s hot, a lump of firestone burning through the wher-hide of Mark’s thick tunic.

Mark looks up at the speck of dark shadow against the blue sky that must be Damien’s queen. The fair of suitors around her is closer now, and smaller; most have run out of energy for the chase, or been sabotaged by their competitors. There’s only a few left, it’s hard to tell they’re so far away, but as far as Mark can see there’s only seven or eight still chasing. He can’t tell what colours they are, but by the size he’s sure that they’re all bronze. Small as Falrith is, and as heavy she must be thanks to eating her kill instead of blooding it, she’s still more than a match for a bronze dragon to catch, let alone brown and blue.

Damien’s trembling against Mark’s side. No wonder, he’s up there with his dragon right now. It’s a small miracle that he was able to talk at all as soon as she rose. Mark rubs his thumb against Damien’s hip, trying to be soothing.

“Please,” Damien murmurs, and Mark knows instinctively that he’s talking to Falrith. “Please, anyone but him. Anyone but him. I can’t. Please.”

Mark wishes he could see inside Damien’s head right now.

“It’s okay,” he says, “It’s just us two here.”

Damien makes no acknowledgement of if he’s registered that Mark’s spoken at all. The bridge of his nose is digging into Mark’s collarbone, nd Mark’s fingers are curled tight in the fabric of Damien’s tunic at his chest. Mark has a feeling that if he got a glance of Damien’s eyes right now, they wouldn’t be focused properly. All his senses firmly up in the sky with his dragon, instead of with Mark on the ground.

The speck of Falrith dives between two of the last dragons still following her, and a second later she’s twined around one of them. She’s caught then. That’s the end of it. A mental lightning bolt flashes through Mark’s brain. The lust of the queen dragon blanketing the entire weyr. Mark breathes in, shaky, as it hits. He doesn’t know if it’s the proximity to the gold rider, or his age, but he’d swear on his name that the feeling hits him stronger this time. It burrows into his bones, heating his blood and making him light headed.

Damien makes a low moan, and tackles Mark to the ground.

“Oh!” Mark gasps, before Damien seals their lips together in a needy, open mouthed kiss. His forearms bracket Mark’s head, holding his weight on his elbows and knees that straddle Mark’s hips. Trapping Mark below him. The stone against Mark’s back is cool, a dizzying contrast compared to Damien’s overheated body pressed up against Mark’s chest.

His lips are wind-chapped and he tastes like the spicy-bitterness of Klah that’s been left too long to steep over a fire. Mark kisses back, tilting his head and winding his arms around Damien’s shoulders.

This must be how bronze riders feel after they catch the queen, Mark thinks. This heady rush of sensation from every point of his body that Damien’s pressed against. He can feel his heart in his ears, beating fast like he’s run across the bowl of the weyr at a sprint. He presses his hand to Damien’s chest, feeling a matching heartbeat thumping behind Damien’s ribs. There’s the wild urge to trail his fingers down the finely spun fabric of Damien’s tunic and then push back up, under the cloth so Mark can press his hands against Damien’s skin.

He doesn’t do it. It feels wrong. Mark draws back entirely, pushing Damien away to gain some distance between them.

“Damien. Damien, stop.”

Damien makes a low noise of protest, grabbing at Mark, his nails digging into Mark’s arms. His eyes are far away—almost blurred with the desire of his dragon. Pupils huge and black and not at all focused on Mark. He’s clearly out of his mind.

“Damien?”

The only answer he gets is Damien pressing himself down to capture Mark’s lips in another kiss. He’s hard, the line of his cock jutting against Mark’s hip.

Mark swallows, throat thick. Right. Mating flight.

It shouldn’t be Mark here. He’s not the one who caught Falrith. He doesn’t have a dragon, let alone a bronze. Damien should be up in one of the guest rooms, or one of the queen’s weyrs, kissing the man who actually belongs here. The man who rides the bronze that Falrith is wrapped around.

It’s far too late for that.

And Mark thinks, in the bit of his head that’s still able to think past the weight of Damien’s body over his, that Damien engineered this. Why else would he hide up in a part of the weyr that not even the fire lizards use? Why else would he threaten to jump off the edge if Mark tried to make him leave?

But this is something he’ll realise later, when he’s not lost in the too new, too present feeling of someone else sneaking a hand down the front of his breeches and grasping his cock and stroking.

His head falls back against the stone floor. The hand on Damien’s tunic tightens into a fist as Mark moans. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Every time he tries he can’t think of a better word than Good. It shouldn’t feel this good, should it? Mark’s touched himself before, but somehow it’s so much more, so much better when it’s Damien’s fingers wrapped around him.

“You’re not even aware I’m here, how are you so good at that?” Mark groans. He’s not at all expecting an answer and Damien doesn’t give him one. His eyes are closed, scrunched up enough to make his brow furrow.

Mark puts a hand on either side of Damien’s face, using his thumbs to smooth out the ridges in Damien’s forehead. “Well, wherever you are, I’m here.” He says. It comes out far softer than he expects it too. “You’re the one that really needs to be taken care of now, aren’t you? I can do that. Whatever you need.”

Though Mark doesn’t have the experience to back up that claim. Or even the knowledge past what he’s heard some of the older weyrlings talk about in hushed voices with a lot of laughter where the adults can’t overhear. He hopes Damien doesn’t want anything that needs oil. The only thing Mark has on him is his beltknife and the discarded pot of glows.

Damien growls, “ _Mine_.” His eyes open, just enough for Mark to see how black they are, nothing at all like the whirling colours of a dragon’s eyes, but somehow more like them than anything Mark has seen on a human being before. He rolls his hips down, against Mark, seeking friction.

Mark gives it to him, raising his leg enough for Damien to rut against it, as he rubs his thumbs in soothing circles underneath Damien’s wild eyes. Damien makes a low animal-like sound, grinding against Mark’s thigh in a way that Mark thinks must hurt.

He’s making his own, shallow thrusts into Damien’s hand, relying more on the slide of his palm over him for any real pleasure. He’s too worried about accidentally kneeing Damien in the balls if he really tries to thrust up into the tight—a little too tight, but also so perfect—ring of Damien’s fingers around him.

Damien doesn’t seem to mind, working Mark’s cock with an almost single minded purpose. Mark’s not going to last long if Damien keeps that up, he can feel the cliff edge in the heat pooling below his stomach. He doesn’t have any way to warn him past grabbing Damien’s hand and pulling it away. Mark finds that he very much does not want to do that.

He kisses Damien, his own desperation evident as their lips slide together. Mark moans into it. His back arches as he finally falls off the ledge, spilling into Damien’s fist.

A moment later, Damien slumps forwards, collapsing against Mark’s chest. Mark stares up at the ceiling, blinking away the stars painted on the inside of his eyelids. He can feel his seed drying on the inside of his breeches, and makes a face at the unpleasant sensation. Next time he does this, he’ll make sure to take them off before he makes a mess.

It’s going to be awful hiding exactly _why_ Mark wants to do the laundry from Joanie.

Mark’s arms have ended up wrapped around Damien’s shoulders again in a loose hug. He prods the gold rider lazily, asks “Are you still _between_?”

There aren’t any teaching songs about what to do when a gold rider jumps you because their dragon’s just gone through a mating flight. Mark has a feeling though that it’s not let them lie on top of you in a disused cave on the outskirts of the weyr.

“Damien?”

Damien curls up on his chest, letting out a sighing snore.

“Really?” Mark laughs, poking Damien again. “You’ve really fallen asleep on me? I thought that was an old holder’s tale.” Obviously there was more truth in it than Mark originally thought, judging by the way Damien just wriggles further into the warmth of Mark’s tunic.

“We can’t stay here,” Mark continues, “Really, it gets freezing at night and everyone’s still looking for you. I really don’t want to be presented in front of the weyrleader for disciplining with stained trousers. I’m probably already in loads of trouble for sneaking off in the first place, and even more for… did I steal you? Fooling around with a queen from another weyr anyway. That’s always a really bad idea. There are teaching songs about how that’s a bad idea.”

Damien mumbles something, inaudible but very grumpy.

Mark smiles, trying again, “Come on.” He pushes at Damien’s shoulders, trying to sit up without pushing Damien’s dead weight onto the cold rock floor.

He’s levered the two of them halfway up when Damien seems to come back to himself. He stiffens against Mark’s chest, and then stands up so fast that Mark is dizzy just looking at him. His face has gone pale, eyes wide with fear.

“What did you do to me?” Damien demands.

“Nothing,” Mark says, standing as well. He spreads his palms, holding them up by his chest, conveying that he isn’t a threat. “I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened.”

Damien’s gaze sears over Mark, searching for any deception. It hurts, a bit, that Damien doesn’t immediately trust him. But then Damien nods, shifting slightly in discomfort—and his face freezes in a rictus of horror. He looks down at himself, at the dishevelled state of his tunic and the wet patch staining the front of his trousers.

Mark’s tongue brushes over his bottom lip, amending, “Nothing bad happened.”

He’s watching Damien closely enough he can see the wall slam down on his emotions. Damien sneers, a hand disappearing up the sleeve of his tunic. “Weyrborn,” He rasps.

“Yes,” Mark says, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

And Damien laughs so hard that Mark’s worried he’s going to fall off the edge of the cliff. He turns away, stalking into the depths of the weyr.

“Wait!” Mark scrambles to follow him. “Damien, wait, really nothing happened.”

But before Damien can even get out of sight he’s stopping short. Arms curling around his body as he looks up at the man that he and Mark almost ran into. Mark barely recognises him as being one of the dragonriders who came from Atkins weyr. Sunlight glints off the twisted metal threads of a wingleaders knot on the sleeve of his tunic.

He looks between Damien and Mark, lips pressed thin. “So this is where you’ve been all day.”

Damien nods, glaring, defiance oozing off him in the slant of his shoulders and fierce scowl.

The wingleader sighs, “Nothing we can do about it now.” He turns to Mark, “I take it you’re the rider of the bronze that caught Falrith.”

“Uh.” Mark says. “No, actually. I’m not a dragon rider.” He’s painfully aware of how mussed he is, how anyone with eyes would be able to tell that he’s had Damien’s hands in his hair, his lips against his skin. Not to mention the stains that he’s hoping the shadows of the cave mask, but he’s sure they aren’t. “I’m Mark.”

The wingleader raises an eyebrow at him. “Samuel, rider of bronze Errolyth” he offers. “You’re Joan’s younger brother, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.” Of course he knows Joanie. Mark’s curse is being recognised as nothing more than the younger brother of one of the best dragon healers in Pern.

Samuel hums, “You look exactly like she did when she was your age.” Then he turns back to Damien, the polite smile falling from his face. “Damien, who flew you?”

“I don’t know.” Damien says.

“I know that’s not true, your dragon knows. Ask Falrith which bronze caught her.”

Mark interjects, “You mean you don’t know?”

Samuel ignores him. “Damien. We need to know this. You can’t sulk just because you’re embarrassed.”

Damien’s head snaps up, “You think this is because I’m embarrassed?” he snarls, “You treating me like a child at the beginning of a fostering!”

“So far you’ve yet to give me a reason to do anything different.” Samuel steps forwards, grabbing Damien by the shoulders, pressing their faces close together, demanding again,“Who flew her?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Damien repeats. “She’s answering with nonsense.”

“Tell me.”

“She says he’s the rider of the bronze.” Damien says, throwing his arm out to point accusingly at Mark.

Mark fights a reflexive cringe as Samuel’s hard eyes turn on him. “You’ve confused her,” Samuel says. He gives Damien a hard shake before letting go of his shoulders. “This is why I told you not to run off!”

“Yeah,” Damien says. His hand is tight around his opposite elbow, and Mark watches as he pulls indignation and rage around him like a cloak. “Moreta herself forbid that I choose who fucks me. It’s not enough that I’m humiliated at every possible moment. You won’t let me ride her, you won’t let me fly in the queens wing. I’m not even afforded the rank knots of a junior queen rider. As far as the weyr cares I’m an abomination and you’re all just waiting for me to fuck up enough that you can get rid of me. But as soon as it’s time for her to rise, all you can talk about is my duty to Pern. It doesn’t matter that I’ve proved that she can clutch without any complications even if I bed no one, even if I spend the entire flight locked in a closet, screaming where no one can hear me. I have to let myself get taken as a fucking _prize_.”

Samuel says, “That is not at all what--”

“Save it.” Damien snaps. “You have a bronze to find.” He stalks past Samuel, disappearing into the dark maze that makes up this bit of the weyr.

Samuel curses, turning to follow him. They’ve both forgotten about Mark. Samuel’s still trying to talk to Damien, though Mark can’t hear the other boy answering. Soon, the two of them are too far away to hear.

Mark picks up the discarded basket of glows. He scrubs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than Damien’s fingers already had.

He wants to talk to Damien, he wants to get this all straightened out. He feels like he should apologise, even though it was Damien calling all the shots. Neither of them were in their head when it happened, and it’s obviously made things worse for Damien than they already are. He feels a little sick to his stomach actually. The rider is secondary to the needs of the dragon, but even so…

Mark had never thought about what that meant for the rider if the dragon picked someone they hated. He feels like that was a mistake.

He’s still thinking about it hours later, hunting around the hall at dinner for a sign of the only male gold rider in all of Pern. But Damien isn’t at dinner. And the party from Atkins Weyr leaves that evening, taking Damien and his gold dragon with them.

 

* * *

 

His name is Bryanth and he is bronze and he is Mark’s and he is very, very hungry.

 

* * *

 

The red star rises on Damien’s twentieth turnday. The next day thread falls on Ista.

 

* * *

 

The weyrs rotate dragons and riders every so often. If they didn’t it would be as bad as letting a hold grow stagnant. Fostering and marriage are as important as the weyrs’ system of Search and transfer. Mark understands all of this. That doesn’t mean he has to like it when he’s picked to leave the weyr he was born in for one halfway across the Northern Continent. The lack of Joan is nice. The cold is not.

Atkins weyr is old. Mark can feel it in the way the stone is even, hewn using the great excavators when they were still full of fuel, and all the corridors spiral around the bowl of the weyr. It’s not as big as Whitney of course, but this close to the ocean it doesn’t need to be. Half their territory is water where thread drowns, and the other half overlaps with the other weyrs enough that they don’t need to man the full flights that the other weyrs do.

As a lowly, barely weyrling transfer, Bryanth and Mark have a set of quarters shelved in on both sides by other riders. Due to Bryanth’s size and colour, his are a little bit bigger than the average green or blue rider. He doesn’t mind, it helps the loneliness of being away from his birth weyr for the first time in his life. He makes friends easily, always has, and soon it’s like he’s been here all his life.

There’s a strange air in the dining hall when Mark gets there for evening meal. He’s late thanks to a combination of training, Bryanth insisting he needed a bath immediately, and managing to get lost between the bowl of the weyr and the kitchens. Most of the tables are already full of hungry men and women. Mark ends up taking a seat at one of the few tables that still has space before he realises who exactly he’s sitting with.

Damien is opposite him, one hand curled around a mug of wine that looks like it’s one sudden movement away from spilling. Despite all his best efforts, Mark hasn’t talked to Damien since that one disastrous time when they were sixteen. Mark’s not sure if it’s because his duties as a gold rider keep him away from the new transfers, or if it’s because Damien’s intentionally avoiding him.

He looks—not good, honestly. There’s a pallor sticking to Damien’s skin, washing him out to an ashy brown, too obvious against the rich blue silk and silver of his tunic. He hasn’t looked up from his mug either, not at Mark, or at the drudge who comes by with a platter full of wherrymeat.

“Damien?” Mark asks. “Damien, are you alright?”

From Mark’s left, Leon—rider of bronze Tegarth—says, “Leave him. He’ll be talking soon enough,” there’s a smile in the words, a tone that Mark doesn’t expect from the usually easy-going rider. He doesn’t like it.

“Damien,” Mark says again. He reaches out, placing a hand on Damien’s wrist. His skin’s clammy. “Damien, look at me, please.”

Damien does, and his pupils are blown wide, huge and black and oh. Oh, Mark knows what this is. He lets go of Damien’s hand like he’s been burned.

 _Falrith is blooding her kill_ Bryanth remarks.

Mark sends back that he noticed, thank you.

He stares at Damien, remembering another time he sat across from him before his gold rose. Damien looks like he’s sick. Like he’s halfway into a fever or illness. Dragon rising doesn’t cause that.

Mark looks around the hall, wondering if he’s the only one that’s noticed. Surely someone else must be aware that Damien’s not in his right head at the most crucial time he has to be? Surely there’s someone in this room filled with riders and craftspeople and holders who have spared even a glance in his direction?

Yes. They have. Mark realises that around Damien there’s a weird empty space. While most of the tables are so full that there’s hardly any elbow room, there’s a significant gap between Damien and the next person on his bench. Mark can’t tell the rank of Damien’s companions, but he’d bet a fire lizard egg on them all being bronze riders. They’re all looking at Damien, little glances between bites of wherrymeat and tubers.

Mark goes very cold inside his chest. Like he’s just come out of _between_.

They’ve noticed. They just don’t care. Everyone in this weyr has decided that Damien has to go through this sick, and alone, while everyone watches, waiting for the moment where the lucky bronze catches the queen, and the rider gets to take Damien to bed.

Mark slowly puts his hand back on Damien’s.

“Damien. Are you still here?” He remembers painfully those moments when Damien definitely wasn’t there, the last time Mark was around when Falrith rose.

Damien looks up at him. Eyes still blown wide. “Mark,” he breathes, like he’s only just noticed that Mark’s here. Maybe he has.

“Yeah,” Mark says. He’s so stupidly relieved that Damien’s able to talk to him. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Patrol ended up being cancelled thanks to snow.” There’s a twinge of guilt at just how thankful he is for that. The patrol would have taken him to the northern limits of Whitney’s territory, and even in the heart of a dormant volcano, the cold bites through him.

“You’re not meant to be here.” Damien said.

“I’m a dragonrider. There’s no reason I can’t sit in the hall of a weyr. I _do_ live here too, you know.” He smiles but the joke falls flat.

Damien flinches back from him. Hand pulling away. He takes a long swig out of his mug, the dark wine sloshing out the side to drip onto the table and the front of Damien’s tunic. He’s shaking, Mark realises. He can barely hold the mug at all, let alone keep it still.

“Here, let me have that,” Mark says, reaching out. He takes the mug carefully out of Damien’s fingers once he’s stopped drinking. Damien only resists for a token effort before he’s screwing his eyes shut, muttering harsh words under his breath. Mark can’t understand what he’s saying. But he recognises that look. That’s the look of a green rider with an extremely proddy dragon to corral.

Mark puts the mug on the table between them. It’s almost completely empty, and the scent of wine mixes with something that Mark can’t quite identify. Something bitter and medicinal, it reminds him of the concoctions the healers make people drink for pain–- “You’re drinking fellis?” he demands, “Are you out of your mind?”

“Give it back.” Damien mutters.

“No. You can’t control her when you’ve addled yourself with fellis juice. How strong did you make this that I can smell it this clearly over the wine? And what about the—part that happens after?”

Damien’s eyes flash open. “I’m not doing this sober!” he snarls. “Give it back!”

Mark opens his mouth, ready to refuse Damien the mug again, when someone comes up to Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Mark, you shouldn’t do this.” he says. Mark tears his eyes away from Damien to look up at the rider. Leon. He must have stood up from the table while Mark wasn’t looking. He impressed about the same time that Mark did, though their dragons aren’t from the same clutch. They’ve flown together a few times, passed each other on the shared watch-heights. He’s always considered Leon a friend, if not a particularly close one.

“Good,” Mark says, “You can take over. Someone with sense needs to make sure that he doesn’t make himself sick.”

“No, Mark, that’s not what I mean.” Leon says. And Mark notices the hard look in his eyes. “You need to leave Damien alone. Give him the mug back.”

“What? No. Are you kidding?” Mark doesn’t need that question answered, and he’s appalled. “And why do I have to go? I haven’t finished eating.”

Leon looks behind Mark’s head, at the head table. “Weyrleader doesn’t like you here. Not when Damien’s like this.” He says. “Mark, I’m sorry, but you need to get back to Whitney. Before it’s too late.”

“Why?”

It’s Damien that answers, laughing, low and bitter and cruel. “Because they don’t trust me around you.” He bites out. “They think that it won’t matter which rider catches me, because I’ll fuck you instead and it’ll addle my brains.”

“Damien…” Mark says.

“They still don’t know which dragon flew me.” Damien says. “Falrith insists that it’s you, but you didn’t have a dragon when she rose. She’s confused. What little memory she has must be addled somehow. Because I had the audacity to hide somewhere where no one was meant to find me and wait out the flight, but you had to ruin that didn’t you. You had to find my hiding place, and sit with me, and not leave until it was too late. Until we were rolling in the dirt together and you jammed yourself so hard into my skull that I can’t get you out!”

“She didn’t clutch well that turn. That’s the part that the weyrleader cares about. Obviously that’s my fault, and yours of course. That’s the other reason you can’t be here. Just on the off chance that if Bryanth does fly us he’ll have to be disappointed with only a dozen eggs on the sands. It’s all he can think to do. He hates you too, almost as much as he does me. If it hadn’t been for you he would know the real person to blame. He would know who to keep away from me so that letting the abomination of a gold dragon, the dragon that should have been a green she’s small enough to be one, was worth the pain of watching her fly. Pern needs every dragon it can get. Even the ones clutched by a creature that should be dead!”

“Damien,” Mark says again. He takes Damien’s shaking hands in his own, begging, “Damien stop. You know that’s not true.”

“Give me my wine.” Damien says as he pulls his hands away. “And get away from me.”

Mark watches him. Damien’s back to muttering at his dragon, begging her to blood her kill. He didn’t do that last time, Mark remembers. He wonders what’s changed in the last handful of turns. No one else in the hall within hearing distance is talking. Listening. The crowd of bronze riders not even pretending to hide their interest.

Mark feels sick. No. No, he’s not like that. He won’t be like that.

The scrape of ceramic against wood is loud in the quiet. As soon as Mark takes his hand away from the mug of wine, Damien’s grabbed it and downed the remaining half of liquid. He looks like a man with threadscore, aching for the sweet oblivion of dreamless sleep until the pain has left.

Mark stands, he can tell where he’s not wanted. “You’re sure that—”

“Just go.” Damien says. He sounds utterly exhausted.

Mark bites down on his bottom lip, nods. He turns on his heel, and leaves the hall.

_Bryanth, we’re going._

His dragon is sulky. _I don’t want to go. And neither do you._

Mark grimaces. He doesn’t need this right now. It doesn’t matter what they want. They’re going anyway. He cuts through a shortcut in the weyr, going directly to the watch heights where Bryanth can grab him. He’s glad now that he didn’t bother taking off his flight gear.

It’s still a long enough walk to make his thoughts churn in his chest. Over and over until it’s all he can think of. The more he thinks about it the more he hates it. He really does. Every single step away brings another reminder of Damien’s harsh words, and the cold expression in Leon’s eyes.

He swings onto Bryanth’s back, wishing that he could make this better. Find some way to get rid of the horror of the mating flight.

_Where are we going?_

“Somewhere better,” Mark says to his bronze. “Anywhere that isn’t here.”

Bryanth stretches his wings wide, launching himself off the watch heights.

From behind them, Mark hears Falrith cry her challenge into the sky. A second later, he’s in the bitter cold of _between_.

1...

2...

3...

4?

_Bryanth?_

Warm summer air hits Mark’s face as they come out from _between_.

 _You timed it?_ It was barely the start of winter when Mark was at Atkins. He supposes they could be on the Southern continent, it’s always unseasonably warm there, but the air’s wrong. There’s not the thick layer of pollen that gets into Mark’s lungs and makes him cough that the Southern continent is plagued with. The only other explanation is that Bryanth went _between_ times, instead of just between locations.

Mark swallows, thanking the first egg that Bryanth didn’t end up putting them in the middle of a cliff. There are horror stories of young weyrlings who can’t hold the image of where they want to go well enough, and end up coming out of _between_ in places that no human can survive.

Bryanth wheels around in lazy circles as Mark takes a closer look at the ground below them. It doesn’t take a long look to recognise where they are. The familiar bowl of Whitney Weyr is laid out below him, the hold itself set into the side of the cliff. Dragons laze on exposed rocks, soaking up the warm sunlight. Others prowl the ground and sky of the bowl itself, hunting wherries. Mark recognises bronze Blythe—Joan’s dragon—half submerged in the huge lake at the bottom of the weyr.

 _Why are we here?_ Mark asks Bryanth.

_You wanted to go somewhere that will help. This will help._

_I don’t see how. When are we?_

Mark scouts the terrain for any sign of when Bryanth’s taken him. By Blythe’s size it’s only a few years back, but other than that Mark isn’t sure. If it were longer then perhaps he’d get a good reading off of the stone, or which banners the hold was flying. As it is, if it weren’t for the weather Mark’s not sure he would have noticed that he’d gone back in time at all.

Then Mark notices the gold dragon nipping at the wings of a bronze that’s almost the same size that she is. There’s only one gold in existence that small.

“No,” Mark breathes.

Falrith’s gold hide is very bright. Mark is sure that if he was closer he would see her eyes whirling a rainbow of colours. She as close to rising as you can get without blooding her kill. There has only been one time that Falrith has been close to rising at Whitney.

“No. No, you didn’t.”

_We can help._

“Damien’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want our help.”

Bryanth is plaintive in Mark’s head. _You want to help. And so do I._

“It doesn’t matter what we want.” But the words are hollow. Mark looks down at Falrith, watching her bite and snap at the bronze that seems determined to stick close by her side even though she clearly hates the attentions. Mark doesn’t recognise the bronze. He doesn’t think it’s of Whitney. The two of them don’t take advantage of the terrain quite the same way that a dragon whose shell hatched on Whitney’s sands would. Not to say they’re inelegant, but Mark’s studied the patterns of Bryanth and Blythe’s hunts. There’s a whole world of difference between the way Falrith sticks low to the ground, instead of using the rocks dotted around the bowl to jump into a glide.

 _That’s Ridith_. Bryanth supplies, as Mark puzzles over where exactly he’s seen the bronze before. The name sends a spike of ice-cold fury through him.

Ridith’s rider is the weyrleader of Atkins hold, and has been for longer than Mark has been alive. Mark’s always been a little wary of him. That, plus Damien’s speech in the hall, and Leon’s insistence that Mark leave as soon as possible, along with the way that Ridith is pursuing Falrith paints a nasty picture inside Mark’s head. He knows that if Ridith has his way, he’ll fly Falrith, and no one else will for as long as he’s there to fly her.

The image that comes after is even less pretty. Damien with his eyes closed, out of his mind as his dragon takes over both of them with her lust, the weyrleader over him, taking, not caring that Damien’s scared and hates him. The dragon chooses, Mark knows that as well as any boy born in a weyr, and the lesson was only hammered in more when he impressed bronze.

But there has to be a difference between the dragon choosing and waking up in a bed to find that a man you know wishes you weren’t alive had raped you.

He has to do something. Whether Damien wants him to or not, Mark is not letting this happen.

 _Get him away from Falrith_. Mark orders.

He directs Bryanth near a set of cliffs that every rider of Whitney has at one time or another used as a convenient area to hop off dragonback while the dragon in question continues down into the bowl proper. Mark utilises that trick now, unhooking his flight gear and jumping as soon as he can. From the cliff he watches Bryanth land between Falrith and Ridith, one wing spread over the little queen. Bryanth’s almost bigger than she is.

Ridith clearly doesn’t like the new challenger. He rears his head up, wingtips reaching out to strike at Bryanth. Bryanth merely turns away so he’s out of reach, almost shepherding Falrith to one of the shadowed alcoves set into the side of the bowl that are heated with the same underground heat that keeps the sands hot for the eggs. He has a hard time of it. Falrith hisses at him the same was she hissed at Ridith, darting away to pace restlessly around the bowl before she notices that Bryanth is still following her at a distance.

She’s a little bit like an angry mreeow whose had her tail stepped on. And now has to show that she’s very upset and enraged until the unfortunate human who caused the slight gives her a good ear rubbing and a fish as an apology.

Mark smiles, content to just watch them until Falrith rises, when he spots a familiar figure heading up the narrow trail that leads up to these cliffs. Too familiar. First egg, was he really so short when he was sixteen? And he still managed to wear tunics that were too small for him, how on earth did he manage that? Why did no one ever tell him that his hair looked so stupid? Mark groans, ducking down so he’s out of sight of the path.

He watches as the Mark of the past wanders around the weyr aimlessly, seemingly searching for something—Damien. He was looking for Damien that day, wasn’t he. He’d practically ended up combing the entire weyr. Great, now what, Mark thinks. He can’t be somewhere where his younger counterpart will see, because Mark sure as _between_ is cold does not remember seeing an older version of himself on this day. It would be easier if Mark remembered if there was somewhere in the weyr he didn’t look. Somewhere he could hide away from his own attention, and worse, Joanie’s.

First egg, if Joan finds out he’s timed this he’s so dead.

The caverns are out of the question—that’s where Damien’s hiding out to begin with. The major areas of the weyr are too likely to be places Joan will walk through at the worst possible moment. Mark looks over the bowl of the weyr, trying to remember his old childhood haunts, or the newer ones he found and made as a teenager.

Of course the hardest part of hiding from yourself, is that the first hiding places you think of are your worst.

Eventually he looks up at the higher weyrs, where high ranking guests from other weyrs stay when they visit. Of those, Mark knows that there’s only one that’s given to queen riders who have their mating flights at Whitney. As hated as Damien is by his own weyr, Mark doubts that his own would have invited the slight if they had put Damien anywhere else. He knows for a fact that Damien is not going to be using that room for the flight.

Mark watches his younger self wander back into the main body of the weyr, before darting off the watchpoint, and running along the worked ledge of stone that circles the bowl of the weyr.

Halfway to the queen’s weyr, Falrith screams her challenge to the sky. Mark curses under his breath, running faster. He has time of course. Falrith has to blood her kill first. (Eat it, Damien didn’t bother fighting her, it’ll take her longer to finish.) His heart still jumps in his chest when he hears her cry.

The guest weyrs are an eighth turn away from the watch heights, each one with wide openings for a dragon to use as an exit and entrance. It’s trivially easy to climb up the stone steps that lead to the guest queens weyr. Too easy, in a way that Mark wouldn’t have thought about normally but today, right now, he can’t help but think how when they designed the weyr someone specifically put in the plans to put the queens weyr just a little bit lower than the rest.

He tries not to look too hard at the interior, not wanting to violate Damien’s privacy more than he already is by this whole… thing. He might as well have not of bothered. The only mark that someone’s been in this room recently is the mug by the side of the bed, and the mussed sleeping furs. There isn’t even a set of pyjamas, or travelling clothes piled on either the foot of the bed or on the chair, where they’ll be in easy reach for bed or an outing. Maybe Damien’s just neater than Mark is, though he doubts it. He sits on the bed, at a loss of where else to put himself. Turns out there isn’t a handy corner in the room that screams out it’s the best place for a bronze rider to steal gold from under the nose of a weyrleader.

Briefly, Mark wonders if he should tie himself to the headboard of the bed. Just in case.

It’s a stupid thought, and he smiles ruefully at himself for thinking it. He doesn’t have any rope. What would he tie himself up with? And how would he get out of the ropes afterwards? The only other person who knows he’s here is Bryanth, and Mark doesn’t trust the dexterity of dragon claws to get him out of any bindings.

Then he hears Falrith scream into the sky again, and feels Bryanth take to the sky after her.

_The little queen is fast, faster than he expected. She easily outpaces the dragons chasing her. Bryanth is wingtip to wingtip with another bronze, a blue directly behind him. He isn’t worried. He knows that he is faster than both of them, that if he wants he could push his way out of the crowd. But he waits, watching the little gold fly higher and higher into the air._

Mark breathes out a harsh gasp, bringing his knees up and pressing his forehead to his crossed arms. He always forgets how intense the mating flights are. All of him is filled with lust. Both the lust of the queen dragon that the entire Weyr is affected by, as well as the determination of his own dragon.  
_The little Queen rises higher and higher, chasing the sun. He follows her, wings spreading out to catch the hot air that rises from the Weyr. Behind him, weaker dragons have fallen away. Not able to keep up with the radiant prize._

Mark's hard. Of course he is. There's no possible way he can't be when the bond between man and dragon is so thick with lust Mark thinks he's going to choke on it. He screws his eyes shut, breath catching as his hands shake on his knees.

He doesn't touch himself. It feels wrong to do it. Damien doesn't get to pick who catches him, and Marks already taking advantage of him on the other side of the Weyr.

“You idiot.” A familiar voice says, in an unfamiliar tone. A gentle hand brushes against Marks cheek.

Mark starts. He flinches backwards, eyes opening wide. Damien looks down at him, the light from the dragon-wide hole in the stone catching on his dark hair and lighting it up gold.

And Mark knows as soon as their eyes meet, that this is not the Damien that he left in Atkins Weyr.

The lines on his face are wrong, more pronounced around his eyes and the corners of his face. His shoulders have filled out too. The last vestiges of an adolescence spent hungry, and desperately trying to grow as tall as possible have gone. His clothes have changed too. The tunic is made of fine, flattering cloth, and the knots of a gold rider on his shoulder are prominent.

"Why are you here?" Mark breathes.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Damien answers. He steps forwards, until he’s solidly in Marks space, his hand back on Mark’s face. “Someone has to make sure you don’t addle your head playing hero."

"I don't need help. I'm fine."

"No you're not." Damien says.

Mark opens his mouth to protest—

_There are barely any bronzes left now. Most of them are too heavy to support themselves on the thin air at the very edge of the sky. The larger, sturdier bronzes drop one by one back to the Weyr. He coasts on the warm air, keeping his eyes on the shining gold. He will make her his._

—Mark groans, low in his throat and tips his head into the cool palm resting against his cheek.

"Is this what it's like for you?" He asks. "You really prefer it this way? Locked in a room with only the dragon and your hand? How do you not go mad?"

“Golds are more intense. I usually don’t have the luxury of knowing what’s happening to my body when she flies.” He pushes Mark back on the bed, until he’s lying flat and Damien can sit between his spread legs. Still with his palm against Mark’s cheek. “And you’re not alone.”

“Damien, you really don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Damien says. His mouth presses against Mark’s in a short kiss. “Stop being so stubborn and let me help you.”

“That really defeats the purpose of me coming here in the first place.” Mark says. It’s hard to think through the fog blanketing his head. He wants to lean up and capture Damien’s lips again, he wants to roll them over and _take_. “The whole point of this was making this better. Not forcing you to endure another bronze rider that you didn’t want.”

“I just said that I want to do this.” Damien’s tone is amused, he looms over Mark, body weight braced on his arm that rests just above Mark’s shoulder. “I don’t see any forcing going on in here, do you? Let me make this better too.”

“I—” Damien kisses him again. This time slow, and thorough, his tongue slipping into the seam of Mark’s mouth until he coaxes a moan from Mark’s chest. By the time he draws away, Mark is panting, hands clutched into the sleeping furs on the bed. “You’re sure?”

“Do you want me to beg for the privilege?” Damien asks, sarcastic.

Mark’s cock twitches. “Um.”

Damien’s smirk grows, eyes glittering with an intent that Mark recognises, but never thought he’d see from this particular man. First egg, until this morning, Mark hadn’t seen Damien in turns. And certainly not this Damien, this Damien who is clearly from a few years from Mark’s future.

“Mark, I timed to the past to find you, and fuck you in a bed that I was meant to get raped in by whatever dragonrider flew me. Do you really want all that effort to be for nothing?” The words are dark, said directly against Mark’s skin, and laced with intent that Damien adds to by placing biting kisses down the column of Mark’s throat—

_He keeps being jostled by Ridith. Old, arrogant Ridith. No. He keeps his eyes up, fanning his wings away from the sharp talons that threaten to gouge into the delicate skin of his wings._

—”Okay,” Mark croaks. “Okay, since you clearly thought this through far more than I did.”

He’s rewarded immediately by Damien’s hands briskly undoing the ties to his breeches, and wrapping around his cock. Mark arches off the bed. “Oh _fuck_. Shells, Damien! Warn a man next time!”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Damien asks. He strokes his fingers up and down Mark’s shaft, long fingers easily creating a tight circle that Mark’s hips rise up to get more of.

“Oh I don’t know, the fact that—nn.”

Damien’s thumb is pressing into the sensitive spot just under the head, rolling around in little circles that send sparks up Mark’s spine. He smirks, so obviously pleased with himself that Mark grabs him by the front of his fine, purple tunic and smashes their lips together to wipe the smug expression off Damien’s face. His hands tangle in the brown curls of Damien’s hair, tugging to get Damien’s head to the right angle, pressing forwards and pulling Damien down until he can feel Damien’s breathing against his chest.

He loses himself in the sensations. Damien’s hand around him, the soft texture of his hair and the rougher, bristly contrast of his stubble against the palms of his hands. Even the weight of Damien’s weight pressed against him is something for his brain to fixate on. He wants more.

He _needs_ more.

“Fuck me,” Mark demands, mouth so close to Damien they’re breathing the same air. “I need you to fuck me.”

Damien draws back, just enough that Mark loses the weight of Damien’s body over his own. He whines at the loss of contact, trying to tug Damien back down by his hair. He doesn’t manage it; Damien stays a frustrating distance away.

“You’re sure?” Damien asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mark groans, “Isn’t that the whole point of why you’re here in the first place?”

“It’s not normally that way round,” Damien says, slow. When Mark opens his eyes to gaze up at him, he can see uncertainty in the back of Damien’s pale eyes. “Most bronze riders don’t want to be the one on their back.”

“I’m not most bronze riders,” Mark points out. His hands slide from Damien’s hair to cup his face, stubble scratching at his palms. “Isn’t that just another reason to do it?”

Damien snorts, tilting his head into Mark’s hand, “How do I always manage to forget… You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Well, no. Is that a problem?”

Damien shakes his head. But the uncertain glint has been replaced by raw curiosity, “You haven’t flown any greens with male riders? I know some of them prefer to top whoever manages to catch them.”

“I haven’t flown anyone,” Mark says, “Not unless you count what we’re doing right now, a bowl away and a handful of turns ago.”

Damien’s looking at him again, and he says, soft, “I always thought that you’d had some experience.”

“Just you,” Mark says, cheerful. And then he groans, dragon-lust making itself known again. His head tips back as the sensation takes him over. “Damien, _please.”_

“Wait,” Damien demands. He rolls off Mark’s body to rummage through the table set at the head of the bed. Mark whines a protest when he loses the weight of Damien’s body, sitting up on his elbows to better watch Damien’s shoulders flex as he rifles through a drawer. “Got it,” Damien says, triumphant. He turns back, smirking at Mark, a little bottle of something clasped in his hand. “Lie on your stomach. It’ll be easier.”

“You know that from experience?” Mark asks, curious, doing as Damien orders. The sleeping furs are hot from his body, and he grinds his hips down into them without thinking, biting his lip at the friction against his aching cock. An instant later Damien’s hand is on the small of his back, holding him down.

“I’m a queen rider,” Damien reminds him. “I’ve got more experience than you can imagine.”

The image of Damien under someone comes to the forefront of Mark’s head. Damien with his legs spread on his hands and knees, a bronze rider kneeling between his thighs. His eyes screwed up in dragon-lust and pure pleasure, begging to be fucked.

It’s a very appealing image. Next time, Mark thinks, and then smiles to himself. Sure. Like there’ll be a next time. Because bedding the future version of the man that you’re starting to think you really want to get to know better is something that just happens every day.

_Falrith rises higher and higher. There are only three dragons left chasing her. Bryanth, Errolyth, and Ridith. She screeches another challenge. Bryanth is the only one to answer her._

Damien’s hand on the small of his back presses lower, “Relax.” Damien orders and Mark forgets everything except Damien’s name. The older dragon rider teases him, playing Mark like a well-loved gitar. His hands sweep up and down Mark’s shoulders, down his spine in a way that leaves lightning behind when the hands sweep to other places. Those hands spend an agonizing amount of time on the base of Mark’s neck, one of the places he’s really sensitive.

“Have we done this before?” Mark asks between moans. “You’re really good at this.”

“I’ve had a lot of sex.” Damien tells him. His mouth is so close to Mark’s skin that he can feel the cold breath of Damien’s exhale against his shoulder.

“With me?”

The hands pause. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

First rule of timing it after making sure you damn well know where you’re going: never reveal what happens in someone’s future. Mark twists his head back anyway to look at Damien, “Really? If we have sex after this is that important?”

“It is for you,” Damien says.

Mark opens his mouth to argue again, but Damien does something with his balls and cleft of his ass and instead Mark says, “Oh, fuck me” as his face drops again into the sleeping furs.

The hand disappears. Mark groans at the loss, canting his hips back to find those fingers that play his body so well. He hears Damien laugh. “Eager.”

“I have a dragon in my head about to get the best sex in his life.” Mark says. “Hurry up.”

The next time Damien presses fingers against Mark’s ass, they’re coated in something. Oil, Mark realises, recalling a few overly frank talks with both the weyr master and his sister once Mark had impressed bronze. And still, Damien’s just circling his fingers around the muscle, barely pressing his fingertips to where Mark really wants them.

“Damien!”

The fingers sink in. Two at once in a stretch that both burns uncomfortably, and then abruptly changes. His body opens up around Damien’s fingers, and all of a sudden everything feels really, really good.

“There’s numbweed in the oil,” Damien says. “Not enough to numb you completely, but enough that a careless dragonrider doesn’t need to worry about hurting his partner during a flight.”

“That happens?”

“Sometimes.” Damien’s fingers twist, hooking up until the pads of his fingers find a spot inside of Mark that makes everything light up.

“Oh!”

_Falrith pulls her wings close against her body and falls._

“Damien, Damien _please,”_ Mark says, reduced to babbling as Damien continues to torture him. There’s an abstract part of him that knows he needs this, needs to be worked open for Damien’s cock, otherwise he’ll really regret it later but the rest of him doesn’t care. The rest of him wants Damien inside him now, wants to be fucked into the sleeping furs as his dragon catches Falrith. “Please.”

Damien pulls his fingers away, a loss that leaves Mark cold and empty, then there’s the rustle of clothes behind him and the feeling of Damien’s arms wrapping around Mark’s chest and pushing in and—

_Bryanth summons the very last bit of his strength, and pushes himself the dragon length needed to outpace Ridith and wrap himself around Falrith._

Mark falls into the feeling of Damien above him, and inside him, the psychic backlash of Falrith and Bryanth pulling him out of his head entirely. He is Bryanth, and Damien is Falrith and he closes his eyes and shakes apart. The afterimages of stars painted across his eyes.

What feels like a turn later, Mark comes back to himself with the feeling of Damien wiping a cloth over his stomach and between his legs.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mark mumbles. He twists, reaching out behind him, trying to grab the cloth.

“Yeah, I do.” Damien says. He pushes Mark’s arm back down on the sleeping fur, brushing his thumb tenderly against where Mark’s pulse is still jumping under his skin.

He keeps tenderly scrubbing Mark’s skin until all traces of their spend is off his body. Mark watches him out of the corner of his eye, the angle bad enough that he can feel a crick forming in the base of his neck. He keeps staring anyway: now that Bryanth isn’t dictating half of his movement, Mark can take the energy to really get a good look at Damien. He looks good. Healthy. There’s an air in the set of his shoulders that exudes confidence in himself in a way that doesn’t look as out of place as it does on the Damien in Mark’s time. He doesn’t have as many scars as Mark would expect from a dragonrider, but then, Damien flies a queen.

He wonders how much older Damien is. He has to be at least another five turns or so, well after the last lingering effects of childhood are nothing more than a distant memory. He wonders what they are in the future. If Mark told Damien that in the future, they shared this bed together, or if Damien came here of his own volition.

It makes his head hurt a bit. Humans aren’t built to really understand the true ramifications of timing it. Even Joan gets a pinched crease between her eyebrows when she talks about it.

“Suit yourself.” Mark says. He closes his eyes, letting a yawn escape his throat as he shifts into a more comfortable position on the furs. Just before he finally drifts into sleep, he feels the bed dip, and a warm body presses against his back. He could get used to this, Mark thinks.

 _We could_ echoes his dragon. Sated as well, projecting the feeling of resting with Falrith in the weyr that a few turns from now will belong to Mark in reality.

The next time he wakes, it’s to find Damien watching him, one hand propped up on the side of his head. He’s moved in the night. Now there’s enough space between the two of them that a fair of firelizards could use it as a nest. The sun has set, and the room is only lit by the fresh glows that someone must have put in the room just before the group from Atkins’ weyr arrived.

Damien’s eyes are hazel, Mark notes. Pale green with flecks of brown in the bottom corners. And he’s got crows feet, little ones, the first start of age leaving lines on his face. At his temples there’s a faint trace of grey hair. Mark lets his eyes wander down Damien’s face, the expanse of bare chest in front of him, until a little glint of silver on Damien’s finger catches his eye.

“When do you wear jewellery?” Mark wonders, pulling himself closer to get a better look at the twisting gold and silver band across Damien’s ring finger. That means something, doesn’t it. Rings on the finger of the left hand, that’s where the name comes from… “You’re married!” Mark exclaims as the answer comes to him. “You fly gold, how are you married?”

Damien rolls his eyes, but he let’s Mark take his hand to examine the ring further. “Rings aren’t just for hold born.”

“Yeah, but dragons fly with who they want. It doesn’t matter who the rider wants. Aren’t rings all about officially declaring there’s only one person you’re going to bed with?”

Damien pokes him. “I refuse to believe that no one’s talked to you about marriage.”

“Weyr-born,” Mark points out. The silver of the ring catches the light, turning white-blue like the most expensive of metals. “And my point still stands. You’re only meant to have sex with your wife and Falrith is always going to make you bed whatever bronze rider catches you. It’s not always going to be your wife.”

“Husband,” Damien corrects, “And Ramoth was only ever flown by Mnementh.”

“Ramoth’s special. The rest of us ordinary dragonriders can’t use her and Lessa as any kind of role model.”

“I’m not ordinary,” Damien says.

No, you’re really not, Mark thinks. First man to fly gold, and he’s senior rider if Mark read the knots on Damien’s discarded tunic correctly. Even if Damien flew green, he wouldn’t be ordinary. There’s just something about him, something electric. Something that keeps Mark looking at him. Even four turns away from him, and there had still been that pull.

Damien continues, “And it doesn’t matter who flies me. If it mattered, we wouldn’t be rolling around on a cave floor on the opposite side of the weyr.”

Point taken. Mark lets go of Damien’s hand. “Who are you married to?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve told you why not. What part of I’m from your future isn’t making it through your skull?”

“I don’t recall you being a fan of the rules,” Mark says, acquiescing. He turns away from Damien, as another thought comes to him. “Does he know where you are? Your husband.”

Damien laughs, finding something in Mark’s words hilarious. Mark doesn’t get it. “He knows,” Damien says.

“And he’s okay with it?”

“Unless I’ve completely misread the signals, he is very much okay with what I just did.” There’s still that amused cant to the words, like Damien’s gloating, that Mark just does not understand.

“What’s the point of getting married if you go _between_ times to fuck other people anyway?” Mark complains. If he was married, the only person he’d want to sleep with would be his husband or wife.

Damien looks at him, gaze soft at the edges in a way that Mark cannot read.

“What?” He asks.

Damien just keeps looking at him. “Why did you come back in time?” He asks.

“I wanted to help you. I didn’t want Falrith to get taken by your weyrleader when you hate it so much.” Mark says, but now when he says it out loud it just feels so stupid. “I just got kicked out of Atkins weyr, and all the other riders were looking at you like you were a prize, or a piece of meat. It was awful. I got on Bryanth, and couldn’t stop thinking about how much you hate your gold rising and then… I was here.”

“And you flew me, even though you know I hate it, and knew that I was already well taken care of.” Damien completes.

Mark can feel himself grow red with embarrassment and shame. “Yeah.” He looks away from Damien. He’s an idiot.

Damien’s hand presses against Mark’s cheek, forcing his gaze back towards Damien’s hazel. “Because you wanted to help the version of me that’s still trapped in Atkins weyr.”

Mark bites his lip, his chest regaining the weight it had picked up watching Damien drink himself into a stupor. “You wouldn’t let me. You’re just going to let those riders take you while you’re too addled to know what’s happening! And you’re okay with that!”

“You’re not,” Damien says.

“Of course I’m not!” It feels so good to yell, even if it’s not really at the person he wants to yell at. He sits up in the bed, hands going up to gesture his frustration. “How can anyone be okay with that? It’s like plying someone with wine at a gather so they say yes when everyone knows that they’d never look twice at you otherwise! Just because dragons choose doesn’t mean you should be forced to—to share a bed with the weyrleader who hates you or the bronze riders who just treat you as a convenient target to fuck!”

“So do something about it,” Damien says.

Mark stops, midrant, looking down at him. “What?”

“Do something about it. Go back there and fix it.”

“Yeah, great idea except for the fact that you don’t want me anywhere near you, and neither does the weyrleader.”

“Fuck the weyrleader,” Damien says. “And don’t listen to me.”

“I am not going to be the typical bronze rider, coming into a weyr where they aren’t invited to take the queen rider unawares, Damien,” Mark says. “For one thing, that’s a really great way to get myself killed by the rest of Atkins weyr.”

Damien snorts, “Please. As if anyone would touch Weyrleader Joan’s precious little brother.”

Mark glares at him. “That’s not a title I keep by your time, is it?”

Damien just smirks.

“Right, you can’t tell me that either.”

“Nope.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

Damien sits up, the smile dropping off his face. He looks at Mark, familiar, and yet so very unfamiliar. “When you left the weyr, I wanted you to come back.” Damien says.

The air around Mark’s bare skin grows cold. He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re just saying that.” Mark says, but his voice is faint. “Why do you want me to hurt you so badly?”

“You aren’t going to hurt me.” Damien says.

“You don’t know that!”

“I’m from the future, Mark. I know everything.” Damien says.

And Mark, doesn’t have any rebuttal for that.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks.

“Because I’m a coward,” Damien answers. “And it took me awhile to work out exactly what you’d done to me.”

Mark looks up at him, confused and indignant, “I haven’t done anything to you.” That’s the point.

“You just flew my gold,” Damien says, “No—fucking time travel, the tenses get in the way. You flew the gold of a foreign weyr. No one knows who you are, but the gold you flew knows that she was flown by bronze Bryanth, dragon of Mark of Whitney Weyr. The problem right there is that to the rest of Pern Mark of Whitney Weyr doesn’t have a dragon. He’s too young for one, and will be for another turn when he finally gets let on the hatching sands and impresses. By complete happenstance, Mark of Whitney managed to find the hiding place of the gold rider before the real rider of the bronze who caught his gold could get to him.”

“That gold rider goes through the rest of his life, wondering if he’s managed to make his dragon go insane by running away. But he’s also wondering if he managed to make himself go insane, because there’s a link now, between him and the boy who found him. Something keeps drawing him back to this kid. Even though he hates him and resents him and blames him for the fact that now every time his dragon rises he’s locked inside the weyr where he can’t escape, there’s just something _there_ that means he can’t ignore the other man. He can’t ignore that every time his gold rises, there’s only one bronze dragon that he wants. Tell me that I’m not the only one who noticed it.”

“You can’t. I know that you can feel it too. We’re connected. That’s what brought you to Atkins when Falrith was ready to rise, it’s what brought you here. Dragons choose. It doesn’t matter about the space, and Falrith doesn’t give a damn about time either. She chose you, before any of us knew it.”

Mark’s mouth is dry. No. That can’t be right. That can’t be how it works.

_It is._

_Bryanth._

His dragon is still happy, sated in the way that only a dragon who has spent a very nice time in the lake with a full belly can manage. Mark gets the after effects of it through the bond, completely at odds with how cold he feels.

 _Why aren’t you happy?_ Bryanth asks, plaintive.

He’s too confused to be happy. It doesn’t make sense! All he did was get caught up in dragon lust once! And then—flew Damien’s gold, while timing it.

Timing always complicates things.

He buries his head in his hands, and groans.

 _You could have told me_ , Mark sends to his dragon. _You knew this whole time didn’t you. That’s why you never wanted to rise for Sam._

_Sorry._

He feels Damien’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. Hot against his skin. “I get it’s a lot to take in,” Damien says.

“Just a little.”

“I’d say you have all the time in the world to figure it out, but realistically a drudge is going to be sent to clean up this room sooner rather than later, and neither of us can be here when that happens.”

Timing’s hard on the body as well, Mark recalls. The further back you go, and the longer you stay while you’re overlapping with the version of you that’s meant to be in this time, the worse it is. He lifts his head, and studies Damien. Frankly, Mark doesn’t know him well enough to know if that smile is hiding the strain of going back—what? fifteen? twenty? turns.

He wishes he did know. He wishes he knew what made those lines around Damien’s eyes. He wishes that he knew what made him smile, or laugh, what Damien did for fun that wasn’t confusing bronze riders.

He wishes that he actually knew Damien.

And he really wishes that he didn’t know that Damien’s sitting in Atkin’s weyr with a mug of spiked wine, while a good portion of the weyr looks at him like he’s nothing more than a piece of meat.

“You want me to go back and fly you again,” Mark says. It’s wrong. Damien told him to go away, but Mark doesn’t want to. He wants a reason to go back, and make things right.

“That’s what I keep telling you.”

“Why?”

Damien visibly swallows. His eyes turn steely, narrowing, “Because I know you do. Because my happiness depends on you doing it.”

“Because we’re connected?”

A shrug.

“Why did you make me leave the weyr?”

“I was scared.”

“And if I go back now?”

Damien smiles, rueful, his expression opening up. “I’ll still be scared,” he admits, “But I won’t be when it starts.”

Mark continues to stare at him, looking for any sign of falsehood.

In the end it’s not Damien that convinces him. It’s the two part chorus in his head, of Bryanth and a foreign, feminine voice that can only belong to Falrith, saying _Please?_

Mark blows out a heavy breath. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

Damien’s expression lights up. The smile coming back, and Mark can’t help but smile with him.

“I guess I better go,” he says. “I don’t want to be timing again when I get back.” That’s not how it works, but he stands and pulls on his discarded clothes and flight gear. There’s something in the bottom of his stomach, a hot simmer that Mark finally realises is eagerness when he buckles the last strap to his body. “I’ll see you, in about forty years.”

Damien laughs, hard. “I’m not that old.”

“Old enough.”

Damien grabs onto the straps covering the front of his tunic when Mark gets close enough, pulling him into a filthy kiss that draws a startled, urgent moan out of Mark’s throat. When Damien releases him he’s grinning, and Mark’s brains are somewhere on the floor of the weyr.

“You’ll need this,” Damien says, pushing a familiar bottle of oil into Mark’s hands. Mark’s fingers close over it, even as he gives Damien a questioning look. “I won’t have anything,” Damien explains.

Mark grimaces, tucking the bottle into one of the pouches on his belt. “Why don’t you have anything?”

“Because I’m out of my head with wine and fellis. Not to mention the dragon I have to corral into blooding her kill properly.”

“Still,” Mark protests.

Then there are footsteps on the stone outside the door to the weyr. Mark closes his mouth around the rest of what he was going to say. Time’s up. “You’ll be okay, getting back to your time?” Mark asks, spinning on his heel to the part of the weyr made for climbing a-dragonback.

“Don’t worry about me,” Damien says with a wave. He doesn’t even make a move to get out of the bed. “See you in the future.”

“Goodbye, Damien.”

Mark swings up on Bryanth’s waiting back, and flies out of the weyr, and into the future.

 

* * *

 

(“Damien? Look at me. Come on, give me that bottle, let’s get you out of here, okay? Where’s your weyr?”

“Mark?”

“That’s right.”

“You came back?”

“Yeah. And I’m not going anywhere.”)


End file.
